


Fireside Chat

by brodayhey



Category: The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Late Night Conversations, M/M, Reminiscing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-11 23:36:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9042737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brodayhey/pseuds/brodayhey
Summary: After their ordeals in the Misty Mountains, Thorin Oakenshield's Company gets the chance to rest within the sturdy walls of Beorn's hall. After a filling meal, two dwarves find themselves the only ones awake around the fire.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was my gift to cliopadra (on tumblr) for the 2016 Tolkien Secret Santa! There's some awesome art on that blog, go check it out!!!

“How are you holding up?” he asked the dwarf across from him.

 

The question cut through the relative silence of Beorn’s hall. Of course, no time in such a place could ever be quiet, what with the dozen or so sleeping dwarves, the one hobbit, and the wide variety of animals that dozed under the wooden roof. The night was filled with snoring, heavy breathing, and whines, as well as the crackling of a fire in the center of the hall. And Balin had been sure he had heard some large beast, decidedly up to no good, outside Beorn’s wooden walls, making  heavy footfalls and snuffling around.

 

It was blissful. He could hardly remember a time he had been this at peace. Since his childhood, he had been fleeing hardship after hardship, fighting and struggling alongside the rest of the royal line to restore Durin’s folk back to their prominence before the fire-drake destroyed their colony. He had seen mighty dwarf-lords struck down in their prime, outside the gates of their ancestral homeland. He had seen the heir of Durin himself lower himself to the most menial of crafts, trading and bartering precious artefacts for food and shelter, and once the precious things ran out, scraps of iron and chunks of ore. Of course, the survivors of the Lonely Mountain had done well for themselves, eventually. The mines were prosperous enough, dwarflings seldom starved, and the king and his family were now able to wear chains and rings and beads that signified their station. 

 

Yet even in the face of this good fortune, Balin could not recall a time where he had been at peace. Though Balin was not directly within the royal line, he still had many responsibilities and duties that his blood entailed. He was not yet as old as Thorin, but still the king sought his wisdom and aid when running and overseeing the Longbeard settlements throughout the Blue Mountains. Luxury, though not as grand as it had been in the Lonely Mountain, was available for Balin, yet he had never been able to savor it. How odd it was then, that Balin was able to relax in Beorn’s hall, of all places.

 

He had spent the past few days running and and fighting through the dark, the inky blackness of the Goblin-town cave system filled with doubt and malice. Any time, there could have been a knife in the dark, staining his scarlet hood with a darker shade and leaving him abandoned in the shadow while the Company sprinted ever forward, leaving him behind. Once out of the goblin settlement, gone two days with no food, no sleep, and little to drink, he had been demanded to keep watch— and then was insulted when his old eyes were not as sharp as say, young Kíli’s! And then there had been the fire, the wolves, the eagles, the teetering climb down the Carrock. Balin was no pebble, and all that running and fighting and ever-present fear took a heavy toll on his old bones.

 

But now he had the chance to sit back and just enjoy the night around him. His belly was full of good food: the finest bread, honey, and heavy cream, and as much jam as he could possibly stomach. He and his clothes were clean: Beorn’s animals were good for more than just serving food. His ears echoed with familiar song: Thorin and the rest had struck up a familiar tune before most of the Company had gone off to bed, and Balin had home on the mind. The weed in his pipe was heady: some strain Master Baggins had offered him after he had appeared mysteriously after vanishing in Goblin-town. Balin had nothing on his mind but for the pleasant feeling of having his feet bootless and propped up on a fine stool, and the handsome dwarf sitting across from him.

 

Dori looked up from his needle and thread and raised one thick brow at Balin. To be fair, the reaction was warranted. Besides a few cursory words, a couple smiles and meals shared with one another, Balin had not had the opportunity to really speak with Dori. Not that he hadn’t wanted to! Dori was an admirable dwarf, the strongest of their company, and one who could bear an entire hobbit’s weight for hours on end— in dark tunnels and while airborne! The fact that he was easy to look at just made him all the more admirable. But when it came to advising their king throughout the quest, and keeping his hardened old joints moving throughout the days and nights, Balin had never had the occasion to speak to the other dwarf. Which was a shame, he marked. Even with a perplexed look and a scrape on his brow, Dori looked exceptional in the firelight. His hair impeccably combed and sorted into its braids, the wrinkles speaking of wisdom and experience around his eyes, his nose that was more adorable than stately.

 

Even though they were the only two awake, Dori seemed a little shocked that Balin had opened his mouth to say anything at all. His expressive brow remained in a perfect arch as he responded to Balin’s question.

 

“I’m fine, thank you,” he said. He looked back down to his patchwork. Balin had nothing to do but watch him, and quietly mourn the dwindling weed in his clay pipe. So watch he did. Making a few stitches, Dori spoke again before the silence grew too long. “It’s a relief to just be able to sit down on something more substantial than on hard dirt, or the cold stone of an eagle’s eyrie.”

 

“Aye, my bones are grateful for that,” Balin agreed. “And to have something more pleasant to eat besides salted meat and tack!”

 

“To have something to eat at all!” Dori corrected him, with a short laugh. Balin had never thought about Dori’s laugh before, but it was pleasant. It came up fast and ended just as quickly, in short bursts like it was determined to surprise the dwarf it was coming out of. It was low where his voice was high for a dwarf. “We had some lean days in Ered Luin to be sure, but my belly had never been as empty as it was when we left the Misty Mountains behind us.”

 

“Mine might even still be concave yet.” Balin patted his torso. “Or perhaps not,” he amended. “The mead is fine here as well.”

 

“Oh, the old bear isn’t here to hear,” Dori said, leaning conspiratorially forward over his lavender hood. He wagged a finger from his hand that wasn’t holding a needle. “You know our honey-wine in the Blue Mountains is twice as fine.”

 

“True of course, but Beorn’s tastes all the sweeter, since I haven’t tasted anything so sweet since Rivendell. At any rate, the drink we had in the Lonely Mountain flowed more freely and tasted even finer.”

 

Balin could have sworn that Dori’s dark eyes had begun to shine at that.

 

“I was born and raised in Ered Luin,” he said. “I’ve only heard of the Lonely Mountain in tales and reminiscences. Much like now, around a fire and in our cups!”

 

It was Balin’s turn to laugh. “Well, forgive an old dwarf his memories. If you never saw our homeland, what makes you so committed to reclaiming it?

 

“You aren’t so old,” Dori said with a smile. “I have brothers, and though they are of age, I still feel keenly the need to provide for them. When the reclamation is successful, I’ll have the means to do so.”

 

“Nori and Ori?” Balin asked. When Dori nodded, he said, “Well then, won’t they have the tools to provide for themselves as well once we get our home back from the worm?”

 

“They quite surprised me by volunteering alongside me, and ruined my plans,” Dori replied with a sniff. “Not that I’m upset! I suppose the true reason I joined this Company is that the idea of a homeland is a comforting one.”

 

“Were you not born and raised in the Blue Mountains? Isn’t that home?”

 

“For myself, for my brothers. But my parents fled the Lonely Mountain, alongside you and yours. Erebor is part of their legacy, and it’s the homeland they’ve passed down unto us.”

 

“Many would say the Lonely Mountain is not our true home, but Khazad-dûm instead,” Balin pointed out.

 

Dori waved off that statement with his hand and another short burst of laughter. “That may be true, but it is surely a conversation for another time. The Lonely Mountain is fine enough for a common dwarf like myself.”

 

Balin smiled. He found he had been smiling often, the past quarter of an hour or so. Through Dori’s speech, it seemed like he was calling Balin something more than common, something special. And for some reason, that seemed important now.

 

“Well, would you like to hear about it?” Balin asked.

 

“Hear about what?”

 

“The Lonely Mountain! I was only a pebble when the worm came, but I remember parts well enough. Would you like to know what you’re fighting for?”

 

“That sounds most agreeable,” Dori said with a nod.

 

And so Balin described his home for the dwarf across from him. Though Balin did not feel his king’s soul-crushing obligation to reclaim the Mountain, he felt a need almost just as strong. He told Dori of the vast rooms, with gilded walls and jeweled ceilings. The colony was rich, and precious metals adorned nearly everything a dwarf could think of. Of course, there were beads in beards, and studs and hoops in ears and noses, chains around throats and wrists. But the rich metals adorned even common things like spoons, railings, and doorknobs. There was no need to hold back in extravagance, not when the Lonely Mountain was the most prosperous kingdom in the world.

 

The city inside the Mountain had stairs upon stairs, leading to forges, vast markets, engineering schools and bath houses. The halls for dining and reveling were vast and filled with drink and sweet meats, perfect for a young Balin to raid, alongside his baby brother and future king. The stairs also led down to the mines, which constantly spit out wealth, to be brought up out of the mountain, to bring even more affluence to the kingdom. There were temples, one for each of the Powers, but the biggest and brightest lit belonged to Mahal, who had so blessed their lives with wealth and power. 

 

The Lonely Mountain was a beautiful place. It had been filled with dwarves with fine clothing and coarse hair, oiled and strung with precious beads. It had attracted men from all across Middle-earth, looking to find their riches within the kingdom, or perhaps without, where the demand for food-growers was ever present. Even Middle-earth’s oldest and wisest creatures visited the Mountain, looking for fine crafts done in fine materials by even finer craftsmen. 

 

“And I recall the mead was nice as well,” Dori said, a small smile pulling up the corners of his mustache.

 

“Oh my,” Balin said, stopping himself. “How long did I go on, then?”

 

“Not too long,” Dori assured him. “And it was all interesting. Once your pipe went out and you continued to puff on it, I decided to pull you out of your reverie.”

 

“Very kind of you,” Balin muttered, embarrassed, pulling the pipe out of his mouth.

 

“Don’t be sheepish, I enjoyed hearing all of it!”

 

“If you’re sure.”

 

“I certainly am. I was able to hear about what I’m working so hard to win, and able also to fix the tear in my hood caused by those wretched goblins! All in all, a successful evening.”

 

Balin, who had brightened up considerably once Dori had assured him that all he said was interesting, felt his heart sink. For reasons he was starting to realize.

 

“Are you going to try and sleep, then?”

 

“I might as well try, if I can with all that noise going on outside,” Dori said, referring to the heavy footfalls and snuffling that had persisted. Beorn’s hall was sturdy, however, and whatever it was had still not found an entry. Or perhaps it was happy just shuffling around outside. Balin had nearly forgotten about it entirely.

 

“Sleep well,” Balin told him, once Dori stood up to leave.

 

“And you as well.” Dori took his time gathering up his sewing materials, and once he was done, he spoke again. “Balin?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“It was nice speaking with you.”

 

“I’m just pleased you did not mind my rambling!”

 

“I’d just like you to know that if we reclaim the Mountain…” he trailed off, biting back whatever he was going to say.

 

“Once we reclaim it, you mean,” Balin corrected.

 

“Yes! Of course. Once we have the Mountain, I’d like to have that drink with you.”

 

“Which drink?”

 

“The mead! That flowed so freely and tasted so fine.”

 

“That sounds most agreeable,” Balin said, beaming.


End file.
